Where I Lay My Heart
by FallonSong
Summary: World War II AU. The bet was to get Castiel to fall in love with Dean in a week, but with the invasion of Normandy looming ever closer, Dean finds that it may not even require a week for Cas, or him, to fall head over heels in love. Destiel.
1. Part 1: The Palms of Eve

**A/N: This is a threeshot, or a trilogy, or whatever you would like to call it. The title of this part and their family histories will be explained far more in the last part, which is horribly morbid but this was very fun to write. I did a lot of research for this story, which is mainly for the second part, where they are actually fighting. My great uncles were all in the war, and one was even a part of Operation Overlord. My mother also gave a book with letters sent before and after this invasion to loved ones back home, so I am hoping the story is almost entirely accurate. If not, I sincerely apologize and hope you can overlook it, and enjoy the story for good ole entertainment purposes. Researching isn't really my thing anyway.. :/ Also, I'm still working on Wayward Sons and Angels, I'm just sidetracking with this until I get a little more feedback, so I know how to proceed.  
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Destiel. World War II AU. Enjoy, loves. Review if you feel up to it. It means a lot.

_**I do not own Supernatural and never will. Le sigh.**_

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Castiel Novak was in love with Dean Winchester from the moment he stepped foot in their tent.

He was sitting with a blond haired man with a lanky build, playing cards and mumbling every once in a while. The other soldiers were spread about, but Castiel only saw Dean, though of course he didn't know his name at the time.

Their unit had just been moved to a small town on the England coast in preparation for Operation Overlord, and the last thing he had expected to find here was someone to fall in love with. Even stranger was the fact that he fell in love with a guy, a fellow soldier.

Castiel did not believe in love at first sight, and he had vowed he never would. As much as their father liked to drill the concept of miracles into their minds, love was something else entirely. Duty came first, and silly relationships were always last, if they were to happen at all.

Dean, however, became an exception to what his father had taught him, all in one single instance where the world tilted and he was suddenly in the sky, completely isolated from his brothers.

Something he had learned from himself was that this war was awful in every sense of the word. It ate away at one's morals and health, one's mind and wellness. It could drive one mad, as it had Raphael, his brother. It could kill you, as it had his other brother, Gabriel. It could make you a terribly cold person, as it had his oldest brother, Michael.

Castiel's own chances of survival were so slim, especially after being assigned to this particular operation. A part of him knew it was ridiculous to think he could form a romance between drills, planning, and the looming invasion in general. Another part of him said that was all the more reason to go crazy for once. His dad wasn't here to say no. Michael wasn't here to lecture him on why it was wrong, so why not? The rational part of his brain told him that men didn't love other men, though his rapidly beating heart was protesting without mercy.

"What's wrong with you?" Chuck asked, as he just stood there, staring slack-jawed at the pair playing cards.

His friend prodded him impatiently, drawing the focus to himself.

"What?" Castiel answered after a few seconds.

Chuck shrugged, throwing his bag onto the nearest bunk, flinching when some of the papers flew out. He made no move to pick them up immediately, instead running a hand through his hair, his face somber. Chuck could look perfectly childish, and then suddenly very old. At the moment, he appeared ancient and worn.

"Nothing. Go play cards. We have a day of drills tomorrow, so you might as well relax while you can."

He climbed onto his newly claimed bunk, snatching the papers and muttering apprehensively. When Chuck was in his more childish moods, he usually shook Castiel awake in the middle of the night to announce a new novel idea, a new plot line, or generally to discuss his characters.

Although it was annoying, Castiel preferred it to this run- down side of him.

Though he was anxious to go talk to the other soldiers, particularly to the one who drew his attention so insistently, he began to help by picking up papers, smoothing out the folds and politely asking what ideas he wanted to pursue.

"Quit staring at that guy like a puppy," Charlie hissed in Dean's ear.

Dean winced, eyes darting around to make sure no one heard. The soldiers at the neighboring table (crate, actually), didn't look up.

"Shut the hell up, man. I'm not staring." He had, in fact, been staring at the man with messy dark brown hair who had just walked in. Or maybe it was black. The lighting in the tent obviously wasn't good, but it didn't matter. The frame of him was so enticing, he couldn't help but to stare.

Charlie laughed as he noticed him doing it again. The poor guy probably wasn't even aware it was happening.

He slapped his cards down to flaunt a royal flush and reclaim his friend's attention.

"I win. Again," he announced loudly, holding his chin high.

The other soldiers certainly heard this and laughed, well accustomed to Dean Winchester and his rotten luck.

They could hardly boast about their own, being in the 29th Infantry, one of the first assigned to storm Omaha Beach during the operation, but they could certainly find light by teasing Dean Winchester and his incapacity to win a single game of cards. Even Greg, who was the slowest runner, the slowest to understand drills, and the one who lost almost every game himself, could beat Dean.

"Okay. Fine, what do I owe you?" Dean snapped, just a little embarrassed. His dad should have taught him how to play cards, so he could teach Sammy. Too bad that never happened.

Charlie didn't answer immediately. Instead, he shuffled the cards and dealt them out again. He never got tired of winning, but personally he was trying to distract Dean from the two guys who were playing with paper. If the other soldiers knew about Dean batting for both teams, as he liked to call it, they might not like him as much. Scratch that. They would treat him like a pile of dog shit.

Dean and Charlie had been friends almost since birth, their military careers leading them down the same roads, just as life always had. So of course he had known Dean had a weakness for men to the slightest degree. He had known for years, though Dean would never admit it unless tricked into it with mind games, which just happened to be Charlie's specialty.

He had been raised in such an open minded household, he only encouraged Dean to be bolder with his actions, despite the fact that society wasn't all that welcoming to his kind, to say the least.

"A dozen cases of beer and a girlfriend is what you owe me, my friend. I need some love in my life," he answered when he saw his friend's eyes drifting curiously over to New Guy. If he kept this up, he would start drooling, and that the others would certainly notice.

He made this demand seriously, though he and all the other soldiers knew that their chances of survival were entirely microscopic. To accentuate that particular thought, one man sat in the corner writing a farewell letter to his wife and daughter, a tear streaming down his face. He wasn't the only one writing, or the only one crying. Just the only one at the moment doing both.

"Right. Like a girl would take you!" Dean scoffed, turning his attention back to his cards with a furrowed brow. No such luck, as always. A part of him decided that Charlie did it on purpose somehow, giving him the worst cards he could get.

"Oh, and you're doing so much better?"

Dean was infamous for one night stands with women, but he never settled down. He was always moving from one thrill to the next. Charlie wondered at first if that was what the war was to him- the next thrill, and the largest one yet by a colossal margin. But he had seen the terror in Dean's eyes more than once and he learned quickly that his friend would give anything to be safe at home with his brother.

"My love life is terrific. I bet I could get any woman in this quaint little town to fall in love with me in a week."

Charlie smirked, approving of his hand, before raising his eyes to meet Dean's ever defiant glare. It was a challenge he wanted? Fine. Let him have his fun before they went dancing on land mines.

"Okay. Get pretty boy over there to love you. You know, the one you keep staring at. One week, give or take a day, and I bet he wouldn't fall for you. No, I can guarantee it."

"I can't work with a week, especially since General Eisenhower has given us a few days estimate for the plan. What do I do if he calls us in tomorrow?"

Charlie exhaled loudly, rolling his eyes and laying down his cards to flaunt another speedy victory.

"Yeah. I seriously doubt that. Hey, here he comes. Don't be bashful now!"

Dean threw his cards at his laughing friend, finding little humor in the situation, but still feeling a slight kick of excitement as the two new soldiers pulled up chairs, deep in a conversation, the other brown haired man waving his arms around for emphasis.

"So then then man will reconcile with his wife, but the daughter will be unforgiving. Then, the man will die in a car crash, leaving the daughter devastated and determined to do all the things her father ever wanted to accomplish in life. How does it sound so far, Cas?"

Charlie gawked at the man whom all this had come from, having no idea what he was talking about or why 'Cas' was so attentive to the utter nonsense.

"I'm Chuck," the obviously crazy man said when he realized he was being stared at.

"Castiel," the darker haired of the two added quietly.

"Castiel, eh?" Charlie asked, waggling his eyebrows at Dean, who growled something and snatched up his cards again.

He began arranging them with far more care than he usually did, feeling his face heat up a little.

"I'm Charlie. Shy guy is Dean."

"I am not shy!" he snapped, shoving the cards at Charlie to shuffle.

"Do you play?" Dean asked, turning to Castiel with determination to show Charlie he wasn't bothered by the man's blatant good looks. He abruptly realized he was, in fact, when Castiel raised his eyes to meet his own. They were such an enrapturing shade of blue; Dean briefly forgot what he was doing, or what he had just asked.

"Yes," Castiel answered, sending Dean's mind scrambling for the train of thought it had previously been on. He had asked him to play cards. Yeah, that was it.

Charlie snickered, dealing out cards for four players this time. He was going to be very amused these next few days, he could tell.

A week could be thought of as a very short time for someone to fall in love, a nearly impossible time crunch for such a life-altering thing to form. In such a dire situation like war, however, it was okay.

People clung to love here like it was their lifelines, their only connections back to home, back to sanity.

Neither Castiel nor Dean expected something like this to form between them. They didn't expect to find their only links to stability in one another, in the middle of this storm.

It only took them the rest of the night to talk to each other past the "lights out" call, to feel the connection. Charlie and Chuck exchanged smug smiles but let them be. They wanted to let them have this.

Yes, Castiel had known he had loved Dean before he knew his name. For Dean to be showing interest back was unbelievable, so much so that he wondered if he was maybe imagining the first day.

Castiel had seen how men who cared for other men had been treated, and he didn't like it, but the prospect of being with Dean Winchester was so overwhelmingly tempting, he found himself not caring. If they somehow lived through this, Castiel knew that he wanted to stick with Dean, wherever he went.

Going home wasn't tempting originally, which he explained to Dean on the second day they spent together.

"My father is a very reclusive man, but he raised us to fight for his morals, to make them our own. He is a devout man, even naming us all after arch angels, save for me."

"Castiel is an angel name?" Dean asked, sprawled out on Cas's bunk with his hands behind his head.

The June night was incredibly hot, so they were left only wearing the bottoms of their uniforms, sneaking unashamed glances at each other's muscles in the midst of conversation.

"Yes. Castiel is one of the three angels of Thursday, my mother's favorite day. She said every good thing that has happened to her has been on a Thursday: the day she met Father, their wedding day, and my birth. So she named me Castiel, a minor angel in comparison to Michael, Raphael, and Gabriel."

"Your brothers? Are they enlisted?"

Dean absently began to chew on a necklace that he wore at all times, much the way someone might wear a cross. It was his lucky charm, he had explained, but didn't say much more about it.

"Yes. I…I lost Gabriel before we officially entered the war. He was reluctant to be away from Kali, his wife. She was pregnant at the time. Anyway, he was stationed at Pearl Harbor, and he assured us all he would be fine."

Dean sat up, letting the pendant fall from his mouth. Castiel looked so sad, so lost; it made him uneasy and rather helpless.

"I'm sorry," Dean said quietly. It was a foolish thing to say, because it helped nothing, but he felt like Castiel needed some kind of comfort.

The tent was empty at the time; all the other soldiers were watching some movie. Dean and Castiel had insisted that they didn't feel well, so they had an excuse to come back to the tent.

Since they were alone, Dean was not exceptionally embarrassed to place a hand over Cas's, to provide a bit more comfort for him.

"Am I crazy," Castiel murmured, abruptly changing the subject, "or are you interested in me?"

He peeked up through his lashes, expecting a negative reaction, anywhere from disgust to anger. However, Dean raised one shoulder and lowered it, avoiding eye contact.

"I'm not really into guys. Honestly. You just…interest me, I guess."

The excuse sounded lame to his own ears, and entirely dishonest.

"Interest you? Or are you interested in me?" Castiel demanded. He would not spend his last few days alive being confused over his feelings.

"Both, maybe. I don't know. I just don't think I'm gay. That's weird," Dean stammered, keeping his eyes focused on his hands.

"I'm not gay, either!" Castiel snapped.

Dean glared at him, fully prepared to protest, but he was abruptly at a loss for words as Castiel's lips crashed against his, moving intensely with all the unspoken words they had been too stubborn to say.

Dean could not begin to count all the girls he had kissed, but he knew that Castiel blew them all out of the water. He was fierce, direct, and passionate in a way that made his head spin. Quiet, obedient Castiel, constantly amazing and tantalizing him.

At one point, Castiel ended up straddling Dean, pushing him back against the pillows and framing his jaw with the same burning kisses that Dean suddenly couldn't live without. He was not gay. He couldn't be. But his every nerve was alive with heat and tension, and he knew that he could never live without this again.

If they were to survive, if he were to go home, to let Castiel leave on his own path, he would never be able to forget this. No girl would ever compare, or pull this same hunger from within him. He threw back his head, emitting a guttural sound he wasn't aware he could even make. Castiel's lips trailed back to his own once more, pressing desperately against them. Their little time together, the urgency to be together before it was too late, was transmuted in every single motion and gasp.

All Dean could do to hold onto sanity was to fix his eyes on Castiel's soft black hair, to tangle his fingers in it and draw him closer, though even when their skin was pressed together, it wasn't close enough.

"Dean, we need to stop," Castiel panted at last, drawing back. His hair stuck up at odd angels from Dean's insistent tugging, but he made no move to fix it. Dean nodded, feeling the sweat beading on his neck.

"Yeah. You're right, you're right."

With that, he rolled off and retreated to his own bed, feeling cold once he had removed himself from Castiel. He burrowed underneath his thin blanket, trying to feign sickness so that their bunk mates would be convinced when they returned.

It was relatively simple, with his flushed face and sweat framing his hairline.

"I'm not gay," he told Castiel, who was absentmindedly playing with his dog tags. He gave the slightest ghost of a smile, letting the tags fall back against his chest.

"Me neither," he replied, falling back against his pillows, the pillows Dean had just been pressed against. "Goodnight, Dean."

The next day was spent trying to make things less awkward around their fellow soldiers. Charlie could sense the change, the acceptance, as well as Chuck, but no others seemed to notice the longing in the pair's eyes as they stole glances at one another.

They spent as much time together as they could, in between dinners and drills. They knew it was a bad time to be distracted, right before such a big operation, but it was also the best time to live, so they carried on sneaking kisses and more when they found themselves alone.

The third night they sat in the corner of the tent while the rest of the guys challenged each other to an ultimate card game, thought to be their last.

Charlie and Chuck snickered to one another as they watched Castiel and Dean having a girly moment, but otherwise let them be, making sure no one was staring at them like loyal friends.

"So Sam gave you the necklace?" Cas asked, popping a sunflower seed in his mouth.

"Yeah. The kid means the world to me. I was hoping I could stick around to watch him graduate college, but I guess that's not happening."

Castiel flinched, hating such talk. He had entered this tent three days ago completely positive he was going to die, and he was okay with that, in a twisted way. They had all accepted it. Since Dean had started to express interest, however, he didn't want this to end. It made him sick to his stomach, the thought of saying goodbye to someone who already meant so much to him.

A part of him accepted the reality, but another part begged him to believe that it could work out.

"Maybe you will see him again. If we make it back," Castiel said.

Dean's eyes locked with his, searching his tone for any sign of sarcasm, though he found none.

"Listen, Cas," he began, toying with his necklace again. Castiel had quickly gotten to know this man, so he knew that this was a habit Dean had when he was thinking deeply about something.

"If there is a time where you don't think I'm going to make it, but your chances are looking good, take this necklace. Take it back to Sammy. Tell him I love him and all that stupid mushy stuff, okay? Will you do that for me, if you can?"

Castiel hooked his pinky around Dean's index finger, the closest one he found in the darkening tent, and leaned forward slightly.

"Of course, Dean. But please don't make me do that. Please."

He shrugged, eyes focused on their fingers.

"I can't promise you anything, Cas. I just can't. I would end up breaking whatever I did, more than likely."

Castiel jerked back, a little hurt. He did his best to hide it, but Dean sensed it and changed the subject abruptly.

"So what was your mother like?"

Cas's forehead creased slightly, though that was the only sign of distress he gave.

"She died…shortly after my birth. Complications, I suppose. Dad pressures me the hardest, even harder than Michael. Sometimes I think he personally blames me for her death, and although it is almost trivial, I think he hates the fact that I am named after such a minor angel. "

His expression turned into a scowl, bitter and misplaced on his usually passive face.

"Michael and I don't get along as well as we should. There was a girl, right before I left…"

Dean sat up straighter, his expression becoming a mirror of Cas's.

"A girl?"

"Her name is Anna," Castiel continued, as if Dean had not spoken. "Michael thinks she would be perfect for me. He continuously tried to set us up, but even before I left I was beginning to wonder, about how I felt about guys. I'm sure now," he said, a soft smile spreading on his face.

Dean's shoulders relaxed, and yet he was still almost sort of jealous. He would never admit such a thing, but it was there, almost surprising him with its insistent gnawing.

"I'm glad we met. If we had met outside, in the real world, this wouldn't have worked," he said aloud.

It was Castiel's turn to be shocked; he drew his hand away, his blue eyes becoming guarded.

"Are you saying you are only doing all this with me because our chances of dying are tragic? That otherwise you would have nothing to do with me?" he whispered fiercely.

"Well, Cas. Be rational. Our kind, whatever we are, aren't very accepted. This is only working here because we're keeping it a secret and we know perfectly well only one of us will make it back, if that."

"The word is gay, Dean," Cas snarled, clenching his fists in his lap. His feelings were terribly hurt this time, and he was not up to hiding it.

"Or, bisexual in your case. And I thought this would work. I hoped. I care very much for you, Dean. I've never been in love before, but I think it's safe to say I know that feeling. I was hoping you would feel the same."

Dean turned his head to the side of the tent, closing his eyes and smiling lightly.

"I guess I win the bet."

"What bet?" Castiel said, his eyebrows knitting together to form what Chuck would call his death stare.

Dean rubbed the back of his neck, gazing at the roof of the tent and sighing. He hated that they were bickering, when there was so little time left. Why couldn't they just be happy?

"Charlie bet that I couldn't get you to fall in love with me in a week. I bet I could. I guess I won."

The last part was added with a nervous laugh as he realized he had pissed Castiel off unintentionally.

"Get off my bed," Castiel growled, turning his face away. He couldn't let Dean see the hurt in his eyes; it would only assure him about his stupid claim to victory. It made him feel guilty, but he wanted to hurt Dean too. Why should his heart be the only one to get stomped on?

Dean reached forward to put a reassuring hand on Castiel, but the action would do no good, so he stood up instead. Castiel kept his head down, refusing to acknowledge his presence.

"Cas," he began, but was interrupted by the sound of footsteps rushing towards their tent.

"Guys!" Charlie burst into the tent, panting and wide eyed.

"General Eisenhower. He says we are moving out tomorrow. Apparently there is a break in the weather patterns and it's a good opportunity to strike. They want us to review the plans again, one last time. Let's go!"

The soldiers scrambled up, leaving their cards folded in near victories and losses, their drinks half filled, or half emptied, all rushing to review their suicide. For their countries. For the British, for the French, for the Canadians, and for the Americans, they would fight as brothers. And two would fight as broken lovers.

Dean held out a hand to help Castiel up, to say he was sorry, but Cas shoved away the offer and stormed out, not looking back.

The tent was empty except for him; he knew he should get moving but his heart felt torn.

"I win, Charlie," he said aloud, though he didn't much feel like he won anything.

Not at all.


	2. Part 2: Stars Over Omaha

**A/N: This is the middle part. Not the last one. So even if the end of this one is morbidly depressing, know that there is one more chapter. Also, history buffs, I apologize sincerely for any mistakes you see. I promise I researched the topic, I just fear I didn't learn enough in such a short time. I was really anxious to publish the story.  
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_I do not own Supernatural. I never will, which is a shame because I would fulfill many fangirl fantasies if I was pulling the strings. _

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**June 6, 1944**

**6:42 a.m.**

"The boat is sinking!"

Castiel raised his head to find the soldier who had issued the warning. Andrew, short and thick muscled, his normally brutally serious face panicked.

Andrew stood the best he could in the crowded, rocking boat, clutching at the nearest people for support. His standing provided a space to see the bottom of the boat, which was undoubtedly filling with water at an alarming rate.

"Shit," Castiel cursed, trying to stand to do something, anything. He was not the type to curse, not even on occasion. Even war had been unable to take that moral from him. Until now. Now everything had changed.

"We have to do something! We are too far away to start swimming," he told the men, who nodded in agreement. They needed leaders at the moment, not just Andrew.

Chuck grabbed Castiel's sleeve, stopping him from fully standing up. His face was tinted green and his eyes were stretched wide with terror. Castiel gently pried his fingers off, trying to hold fast to his patience. Greg was motioning for him to come over, his usually anxious eyes holding a pleased expression.

"Chuck, I know you're not feeling well, but we have to figure out what to do."

Charlie, crouching for balance, weaved through the crowd after hearing Castiel's plea. Dean had briefed him on the spat they had, but he knew it was not the time to get into such drama. They had to fight now. Whoever was left after the invasion could work things out.

"I'll sit with him," he offered, face remaining relaxed as Chuck grabbed his arm and moaned as the ship rocked against a wave.

Castiel nodded his thanks, scrambling to keep his balance as he made his way to Greg.

"What is it?"

"Helmets, Castiel! We can use our helmets to scoop the water out!"

Neighboring soldiers beamed at him, clapping him on the shoulder and passing along the word to the fellow brothers. Greg, usually shy, held his chin high and nodded as others gazed at him with newfound respect.

"Good thinking, Greg," Andrew admitted grudgingly. He swept his helmet off, waving it over the crowd.

"Well let's get going!"

The others cheered, tearing off their helmets and dipping them into the steadily growing pool at their feet. They slung the contents out messily at first, but they soon found a rhythm to work by.

Chuck did the best he could; occasionally leaning over the side of the vessel to empty whatever remained in his stomach. Charlie remained close, encouraging him as the beach grew closer. In the plans, it had been labeled as Omaha, one of two beaches that the American divisions would be securing, if possible.

At the moment, the plan was off kilter, not only because of the obviously sinking ship, but because they weren't the only ones with the problem. They could see fellow units struggling with the same sinking vessels, but lacking the same solution. They were too far away to communicate, so Castiel had to pray they could figure it out on their own.

"We have a problem," a voice murmured near Castiel.

He stiffened, knowing immediately who it was, reluctant to face him and angry at his pounding heart for betraying his emotions.

Dean's hands brushed his as he dipped the helmet into the pool that had spread to their side of the boat, causing Castiel to flinch and a flush to spread to his face. Now was not the time to be dramatic, but Dean had angered him, to say the least, and he couldn't forgive him so hastily.

"I'm sorry," Dean said sincerely, keeping his eyes fixated on his helmet.

"Cas…I mean it. I'm not the type of person to apologize, so this is kind of hard for me, okay? But I am sorry. And if by some insane miracle we both make it through this, I'll prove the last few days were real. Please. If we have to die, don't let us go like this."

Near the end of his speech, he sucked up the last bit of courage he possessed and raised his chin, to face Castiel and let him see the honesty, the passion in his eyes. He needed Cas to know how much he meant it, how much he cared for him, and how much it meant for Dean Winchester to actually beg.

"It wasn't just a bet," he added in a gentle whisper.

This was what drew Castiel's gaze away from the water, to Dean. The early morning rays were trying to break through the clouds, casting him in the softest frames of gold, illuminating his freckles and turning his eyes to the color of jades. Castiel inhaled sharply, trying to find the words he was about to say, remembering them to be unkind, but they didn't seem to be right to say anymore. Dean really loved him, it seemed, and now they were going to have to parade into the invasion like this; their hearts on their sleeves. A perfect target, a perfect prop for disaster and disappointment.

Just as he opened his mouth to tell Dean it was okay, he was forgiven, though that had not been in the plan, the command came to them.

"29! Let's go!"

And then they were sent into the frigid waters.

As Castiel jumped in, his first thought was that the water should be warm, it being June. The second thing he thought was that he really knew nothing of this country, besides the basic geographical layout. Even then, the map in his mind was riddled with war plans and diagrams of attack.

He didn't realize much else as the shock wore off and the cold waters sank into his uniform, clinging to his pack and weighing him down. Three times he was dragged into the salty waters before he manage to stay afloat, gasping and coughing.

"Keep moving, Cas!" cried Dean. He had landed nearby, but had already managed to get ahead. He was treading water, waiting for Castiel to catch up.

He was clearly a strong swimmer, far stronger than many others who were encountering the same problems as Castiel with the equipment and uniforms.

The tanks began to fire from somewhere behind them, usurping great quantities of sand and blocking their view. A few soldiers had already made it to the beach and had begun scrambling for cover, though there was little to be found right away.

One man who had been swimming in front of Dean finally succumbed to the lapping waves and went under, his hand waving desperately towards the sky. If they were to dive and try to save him, there was no guarantee they themselves would surface again. With that dark thought, Castiel pushed on, pressing himself as close to Dean as he could while still leaving room for arm movement.

A few other soldiers had sank now, though Castiel was relieved to see familiar faces still swimming strongly: Greg, preforming a desperate dog paddle, Chuck splashing along effortlessly, eyes focused on the shore with a determination Cas had never seen before, and Charlie, gliding along like a dolphin, clearly accustomed to a life near water.

"State champ," Dean chuckled as he caught Castiel staring.

"Is now really the time to discuss his life?" he asked irritably, spitting out water. He was losing strength, slowly going under as he legs grew tired.

"Hey! Keep going. We're almost there. All we have to do is get to the beach and we can take shelter behind those boulders. See them, Cas? We are going to have to make a hell of a run for them, but we can make it. We're going to be fine."

Castiel pulled every last scrap of strength from himself. His muscles, the muscles he thought were perfectly toned, were screaming in agony. He felt as if they were on fire, burning away at his endurance and leaving him chin deep in the icy water.

"NO! Castiel! Keep swimming, dammit! We're almost there!"

Just as he said this, Castiel's feet scraped sand, propelling him upwards and leaving him gasping and coughing. Dean was breathing heavily, as well, his face taut with worry that slowly ebbed away as they made it a bit closer to shore.

They had made it a few feet before the firing began again in a merciless wave.

A soldier to their immediate right fell, clutching his chest and screaming before another shot silenced him.

"Move, Cas! MOVE!"

Dean pushed him from behind, propelling him into motion and towards the nearest shelter they had seen.

They dashed, faster than they ever had in training, with bullets flying past them.

It was only sort of in the plans, to run like mad, but Dean never took orders all that well. He had tried to be a hero like his dad wanted, and that meant taking orders, but it was looking like he would ultimately fail him. They had to do what they needed to.

"Are you okay?" he huffed, turning to Castiel, who appeared to be initially shell shocked.

"He'll be fine," a new voice interrupted, seemingly from nowhere.

"Charlie! You made it!"

Dean almost laughed as Charlie emerged from the sand like some kind of horrid monster. It was an accurate description, as the sand and debris clung to his wet uniform stubbornly, though in some places it streamed off.

"Course I did. The enemy is further up, in some kind of cave. They had this place semi-prepared, by the looks of it. They got a mean angle on us, so we should probably head east. Get in their blind spot and start firing."

"This was not how it was planned," Castiel muttered, clasping his gun to hide his shaking hands.

"We weren't expecting this beach to be so guarded, or to lose so many men before we could even come ashore. And look, even more are falling and sinking. Guys, I won't lie. It's looking bad, and this is just the beginning."

"If this is it, we take as many damned Germans as we can," Dean vowed, reaching out to grab Castiel's hand for encouragement. He was happy to find it as Castiel squeezed, almost too tightly. Then again, to wasn't enough. It never would be, Dean realized. The way things were looking, they wouldn't have enough time together.

"Enough of this," Charlie snapped, flexing his fingers. "We need to change positions. I've been firing here for about two minutes. They are going to work it out in another few seconds, I bet."

As he said that, a heavy rain of fire skewered to their direct left, far too close for any of their likings.

"Move!" Charlie roared, prodding them forward.

They leapt up, breaking cover and dashing towards another shelter of rocks a good fifty yard sprint away. Around them, soldiers were falling and screaming, roaring curses and challenges, some advancing and most dropping to the ground, seeping their blood into the sand and the grass.

Dean was the first to make it, falling and rolling into cover just before Castiel skidded next to him. They lay on their sides, locking eyes. They were both incredibly relived and hardly believing their luck. For them both to make it this far was such a miracle.

"Where's Charlie?" Dean huffed, breaking his stare to sit up.

Castiel felt odd for a moment for thinking Dean looked comical, helmet askew and his hair sticking out and coated with sand. This was the last place to stop and acknowledge, and appreciate, something so petty.

"He was right behind us," Castiel answered, shaking his head to clear the thoughts.

"There he is!" Dean cried. Charlie was crouching only about fifteen feet away, stooped over with wide, terrified eyes that were focused on his hands, which clutched at his lower stomach.

The expression struck something in the rational part of Dean's mind, telling him something was not right. Even Charlie would keep his calm here, because he was cool and confident and he would be whatever his fellow soldiers needed. He would not freeze in the middle of the battlefield with such a desperate expression. Unless something was wrong.

"Charlie!" Dean cried, lunging forward. Castiel caught him around his middle, dragging him back behind their cover.

Charlie's eyes darted up to meet Dean's. They gave him the full shock of the horrified expression frozen on his face.

He brought a knee forward, as if he were trying to propel himself forward, but it was useless. He opened his mouth to say something, but as he did, blood flowered out sluggishly, lining the cracks of his teeth.

He fell; face forward, into the sand, fingers twitching for just a few final seconds before he lay still.

"CHARLIE!"

Dean jerked forward, hardly flinching when another wave of fire threw sand around them like some kind of reversed rainfall.

"Dean! He's gone. We have to keep moving."

He relaxed against Castiel's arms, but grief clung to the lines of his face.

"You're right. After we get some hits in here, we need to move further up. Clear?"

"Yes, Dean."

A new fire of determination filled his eyes, as he turned his back to Charlie's body and silently swore revenge.

They took turns standing, propping their guns on the ragged surface of the rocks and firing before ducking down again. The Allied ships were still advancing in the distance, bringing the faintest glimmer of hope. Was it foolish of them to hope the next few waves could finish the Germans? That they could have secured the beachhead before nightfall? It was absolutely foolish, irrational, and very delusional.

But as Dean did his best to avoid looking at his best friend's dead body, so close that he almost thought he could smell the blood, he hoped.

God, he hoped.

"We need to get moving," he told Castiel. They had only been crouching behind this particular shelter for about ten minutes, but it felt like ages.

Their muscles still ached from the vicious swim over, their hearts were pounding too savagely in their heads, and everything was simply too loud. The screams of pain, the death cries, the bullets.

They were making a mad run for another brief shelter when the first land mine went off further ahead, efficiently ending at least three lives and leaving two others to suffer a slower death with what remained of their bodies.

As they ducked behind another boulder, Dean buried his head in Castiel's shoulder, moaning with what Castiel would only call grief in every form it knew. For family, friendship, for the past, and for the future they could have had. That maybe hurt the worst.

Dean would never admit how queasy the bodies made him, but he didn't need to. Castiel let him hide within the folds of his uniform, though it was soaked and layered with sand. He let him have his moment while he sent a prayer to God above. If there was anything to make you believe, or hope, it was war.

Perhaps because death was suddenly very, tauntingly close. It made one reevaluate their outlook on life, afterlife being included. It was just very difficult to think this was the absolute end that the road dropped off right then into utter darkness.

"We're in the palms of Eve," Castiel muttered bitterly.

Over the general sounds of warfare, Cas did not think that Dean could possibly hear him. However, he raised his head, and asked with a worn curiosity, "What are you talking about?"

It was not the time for an explanation, but Castiel was so tired of fighting already. How long had they been on the beach? Forty-five minutes? An hour? It felt like a lifetime already. If this were to be his eulogy, let Dean hear it, if no one else. Chuck was nowhere to be found, but that was okay. Chuck knew Castiel as well as he knew his fictional characters in his stories, which was saying a lot. Let Dean know what he was, before that ceased to exist.

"Dean, you have told me you go to church, so you should know of Eve."

"Of course I do. She ate the forbidden fruit, right?"

" Yes. Eve betrayed God, as some would say. She was still a part of the beginning though, she still had her place in the world. Maybe we've all done something in our lives that led us here, to the same path Eve treaded. But it's not too late to apologize for our mistakes."

Dean sighed, almost dreamily.

"Cas, I don't know what you are even saying. But I won't ever apologize for the time we had, okay? Is that clear? You weren't a mistake, not ever."'

"Eve made her mistake, an enormous one. We are in her position, but we can still leave our mark on the world."

Dean sat up straighter, letting all the sounds of distress come rushing back to him. His eyes sought out his fallen friend on the beach, further back, but he knew it was him. Something seemed to break as he looked back at Castiel.

"All we are going to get is our names on some kind of a memorial, if that. People won't ever know what we meant to each other, that I had a little brother that I loved more than anything. That you loved your brother and war took him. No, not just him, but all three of your brothers in different ways. They won't know that we had daddy problems. Cas, people are going to see our names, at separate places more than likely, and they will never KNOW. That's why I want to make it back. This can't be it."

Dean grasped at the sides of Dean's face, bringing their lips together with only the slightest interference of their helmets.

"I know, Dean. I know," he whispered, his lips still impossibly close.

Dean pulled away, reluctantly. It was hard to pull away from such a comfort, but they still had to fight. How much longer, they didn't know. Honestly, he doubted any of the remaining soldiers remembered all the operations and tactics they were taught.

Everything was suddenly a general picture: take down the enemy.

The waves behind them seemed to hold formation, but besides that the soldiers were scrambling and ducking being whatever shelter they could find.

"We need to move again. Let's circle back and fire from another direction."

As they moved again, they realized they were stepping over more bodies than before. More and more casualties, more and more lives ending. Dean was thinking to himself about the men who must have children at home, babies who would never know them, when the bullet hit him.

He collapsed before he even had a chance to think of steadying himself, before he could even fully process what had just happened to him. He only felt the searing pain in his stomach, stealing his breath and slowing his pace.

As he fell, face first into the sand, he recalled Charlie's death, which seemed like it happened months and months ago.

'That's what I look like,' he thought, slightly surprised. 'I'm dying.'

The brief shock, wore off rapidly, however, and he was left with the panic as his eyes began to feel heavy and his mind became muddled.

"Cas," he called weakly.

Castiel had made it to the shelter, which was occupied with more men than when they had first started to it. Castiel saw none of them as he turned, expecting Dean to be directly behind him.

He was corrected as he turned and saw Dean attempting to crawl forward, hands shaking wildly as he tried to find some hold in the shifting sands.

"DEAN!"

There was no one to stop him as he had stopped Dean from going for Charlie; he lunged forward, unhesitant, uncaring about the gunfire that was perilously close. All he saw was Dean.

Castiel had not seen Chuck, crouching behind the shelter with a pitied look. His friend did not move to stop him from retrieving Dean though; he knew it wouldn't do any good.

Castiel dived, grasping Dean under the arms and dragging him back as gently as he could under the fire. He wanted to pick him up, to carry him back, but that would only make them both more obvious targets.

His gut told him that the fact that Dean hardly protested was an ill omen, but he ignored everything his mind told him.

"He's hurt," he told the small group of soldiers gathered, becoming annoyed when they made no move to help. He was injured, right? He would get better, if they stopped the bleeding. Right?

"Cas," Chuck whispered, placing a calming hand on his shoulder.

"Dean. Dean, come on, we have to keep going. Open your eyes, please. Dean? DEAN!"

Chuck backed away, motioning to the other soldiers.

"Give him some privacy," he murmured to them.

"Privacy? What are you suggesting, we turn our backs and start humming?" Andrew snapped. His face was coated in mud and blood, from whom no one dared to ask.

Chuck shrugged, hardly knowing what to do with the situation. He knew Castiel had to say goodbye, though, and what he needed to say was private.

"Let's just move off a little bit. Please, guys."

They grumbled angrily, but obeyed. The main target didn't seem to be their small retreat anyway, so they were bit more unperturbed with moving over a few feet.

Castiel didn't notice when they left. He only noticed the face that Dean's eyes were weakly fluttering open, and the way he was breathing shallowly.

He didn't like any of the signs, but Dean couldn't die. He couldn't leave him here, just like another body, the way they left Charlie behind, close to the lapping waves.

"Cas?"

Dean's voice was so soft, Castiel almost believed he had been imagining it.

"Cas. The necklace. Take it to Sammy. You promised."

There was no doubt this time; Dean had spoken. Castiel did not sob as he hooked his fingers under the thread and withdrew the necklace from the folds of Dean's clothes. He hesitated once it was in his hand, the motion seeming so final that he didn't want to proceed further.

"You can take it to him. Just hold on a bit longer, Dean. They have to send some nurses up here eventually. We can still make it. I know we wouldn't be accepted out there, but we can travel around. No one has to know. We can see the world, all the good in it. There's still some, you know. This isn't it, Dean."

Dean smiled as Castiel rambled on, his blue eyes wide and almost childish with sincerity. He meant it. And that's why Dean was sad.

"Cas. That bet," he began, but was forced to stop as coughing fit racked his body. A warm, sticky liquid shot up his throat. He knew it was blood.

"It's okay, Dean. You don't have to speak."

"No, you need to know. I thought I was getting you to fall in love with me in only a week. I thought I could, because I'm a jerk sometimes, I'll admit it. But I was the one who fell in love. You're better at this than me. It only took you three days."

Dean reached up, trying to brush away the frown that adorned Castiel's face, but found that he had no energy to get that far.

"You're my angel, Cas. You were always good enough."

Castiel felt a sob choke him as he tried to find something to say, something reassuring. What did you tell someone before they died?

"Castiel! You have to move now! They have grenades."

Chuck rushed over to him, grabbing his arm and jerking him into a standing position.

"Chuck, I can't leave him! What would he think of me?"

Dean winked halfheartedly, and then closed his eyes.

"We need to get farther up, now. It was looking bad before, but I think the tide is starting to turn a little. But we have to move out, now."

Chuck sighed, his own heart breaking as Castiel refused to tear his eyes away from Dean.

"He's gone, Cas. There isn't anything we can do about it."

With that, he forcibly drug Castiel with him, away from the fallen soldier, for his own safety. If he were to leave him there, he would have been shot. He couldn't let this grief lead to his death,

The necklace swung from side to side in Castiel's grip, mocking him, throwing his failure in his face. He numbly gripped it, his last ink to Dean, the last reminder of what they had.

As they were moving closer to edge of the beach, closer to the trees, a bullet found Castiel. It was not a fatal area, but it was enough to bring Castiel to the ground, gripping his leg and gritting his teeth with pain. The necklace fell in the sand, disappearing as another round of fire kicked up earth and buried it.

"Hold on, Castiel. We got you," Chuck called, sounding far away, though his face was close to Cas's. His world rocked, and then everything was black.

When he woke up, he was concerned that he had died and Dean had not immediately come to greet him, for the view he saw was too magnificent to belong to mortal life, the sky was too breathtaking to be anchored to a trivial place like earth. The stars seemed to be spinning, dancing in a thousand shades of deep purples, lined with black.

"You're awake," a cheerful voice said from somewhere nearby.

"Am I dead?" Castiel asked, regretting talking instantly. His mouth felt like sandpaper.

"Fraid not, Cas. But there is good news. Andrew-"

"Hey, Chuck! Medics came in. They said most of the men are dead, save for the ones you saw making a break for the trees. And us, of course."

Greg.

The conscious part of Castiel was relieved Greg had made it. Between the treacherous swim, the beaching, and the heavy fire-and apparently grenades-Dean had doubted he would make it far. He was glad he was alive, and apparently well.

"That's fantastic. Castiel needs one for his leg," Chuck replied in a hushed tone.

Castiel blinked, focusing on the sky.

"How long have I been out?" he asked

"You won't like this, Cas," Chuck chuckled, removing his helmet to run a hand through his hair.

"Almost twelve hours," Greg answered brightly.

"Twelve?" Castiel exclaimed, trying to sit up and flopping back down as his head began to spin.

"Relax. And yes, twelve. You must have been exhausted."

Castiel hardly heard them, his mind drifting and wondering where Dean was now. Had someone removed his body yet? Had he wondered where Castiel had gone? Did he think that he left him there, alone?

He threw an arm over his eyes, trying to block out any thoughts of Dean; they were too painful and he really needed to be strong at the moment.

"We have to move," another soldier snapped, moving towards them. "Half of us can go west, the other half east. We can leave the injured here. They will probably be safer, honestly."

Andrew. Bossy as ever.

"Yeah, okay, SIR. Hey, Cas. It got really rough for a while. General Bradley almost ordered a retreat, but we held our ground! Everyone will be so proud of us when we get home."

"You dragged me with you for twelve hours?" Castiel asked, not really hearing what he had said.

"Of course, Cas. I knew you were alive. I couldn't just leave you alone. But I guess I do now. Look, I'll be back. Mike and Timothy are here, also recovering. We WILL come back for, okay?"

"Okay," Castiel said, letting his head fall back against the soft earth.

"Ready?" Andrew called. "Chuck, you and the remaining soldiers of the 116th unit come with me. The rest of you, get ready to move west, clear?"

The soldiers nodded, eager to be moving again. They had basically become sitting ducks out here, so they were sure to be safer moving. How wrong they were.

Castiel did not see what happened; all he knew was that Andrew's soldiers moved out with Chuck in the lead, and then a good forty seconds later, a landmine went off, impossibly close and extraordinarily loud. The remaining soldiers around him yelped and scrambled back, expressions filled with disbelief.

The screaming began, of the soldiers who had survived, The blasts were doomed.

Castiel squeezed his eyes shut, breath hitching in his throat as he recognized a solitary scream of agony that seemed to exceed all the others. He felt a tear roll down his face, involuntarily of course. But maybe it was okay to cry for once.

"Chuck," he whispered to the stars.

"We need to move," the other soldiers muttered uneasily. "They are going to know our position."

They agreed, bustling off, Greg lagging behind.

"Listen, Cas. We are going to come back. Don't you worry about a thing."

His tone had a forced brightness to it, for the first time since Castiel had known him.

They made it only about fifteen seconds away when the other land mine went off.

This one was so close, the heat scorched his face, clogging his ears and stinging his eyes. He heard no screaming this time. In fact, he heard absolutely nothing.

The world has simply turned mute, all with a single step of a wayward soldier.

A star winked above his head, then vanished. They all began to blur and swim together until only blackness pressed against his tired eyes.

And at last, the utter silence was matched by sheer blackness.


	3. Part 3: Time Will Tell

**A/N: Here it is! The final chapter in this short fic. I really enjoyed writing it, and I hope you enjoy reading it. **

_**Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural. Oh but if I did...**_

* * *

The rocking sensation is what Castiel awoke to. It was gentle, lulling; threatening to drag him back to sleep the moment he escaped from it. He forced his eyes open, noticing how heavy they were, as if he were under the influence of some medication.

Everything was unnervingly quiet.

He struggled into a sitting position, the world spinning and blurring about him the second he did so. Rubbing his eyes, he looked down with clear vision to see his leg wrapped up in thick bandages with faint bloodstains near where his kneecap was.

He placed his hands on the white blankets, finding them crisp and clean. He was in a hospital bed.

With a slight shock, he realized he was on a vessel home, in a room filled entirely with wounded soldiers. Looking around, he saw Andrew with his head patched heavily, but no other familiar faces as far as that side went.

Scanning the left side of the room, he saw Greg, who was sitting up and looking at him excitedly. His right leg was nothing but a wrapped stump, cut off several inches above the knee.

Castiel wondered if it had been the land mine that took it, or if it was something else, something that he missed after losing consciousness.

He waited for Greg to say something, only to notice that he already was; his lips moving rapidly with his excited words.

Words that Castiel couldn't hear.

He dug in his ear with a finger, wrinkling his nose as felt a bit dried blood encrusting his earlobe. His ears seemed to be clean beyond that, but there was no sound reaching him, as if the world had simply been switched to mute.

Greg's smile slid off his face as he began to process what was wrong. Castiel watched as his mouth stretched wider, as if he were calling for someone. Greg began trying to speak to him again, this time slower, but Castiel had never tried reading lips before, and he certainly wasn't going to figure out how that swiftly.

He thought he understood a select few words: buddy, okay, sorry.

He was sorry, too.

A nurse rushed over to Greg, who began making wild gestures towards Castiel, his eyes filled with concern. She turned and spoke slowly to him, as if that would make it easier for him to understand, like his hearing would improve if she was just a bit patient with her sentences.

"I can't hear you," he said, aggravated.

He had no idea how his tone sounded, but he knew he felt angry and he didn't want to be gawked at, and it probably was conveyed in his tone.

The nurse stepped back, her eyes sympathetic.

She retrieved a few doctors, and after a good thirty minutes, they declared him deaf in both ears due to close contact when a land mine was activated. They showed him the papers, so he wouldn't have to waste his time reading their lips.

On the voyage home, he received more attention from the nurses than a majority of the stable ones, causing him to receive some rather resentful looks. It was ironic that he didn't even enjoy female attention. Not anymore, of course.

For the first few days, he focused solely on learning sign language and tricks to reading lips, just to keep distracted. But at night, he couldn't help but to break down and curl up in agony. He ignored the flaming protests his leg gave; he just felt safer curled up, as if he were on the defensive. No one could hurt him.

He ached for Dean, sometimes so badly he thought his heart was surely being shredded in his chest and no one had been made aware. The agony became so great at moments that he wished that the land mine had taken him, too. During the day, however, he tried his best to keep an impassive face, to appear as if he wasn't falling apart. He needed to be strong.

After they explained to him, by writing on a clipboard, that they would be home in just two more days, he was given a pad of paper and a pencil, to practice getting his thoughts down quickly so that he could follow along in conversations, if his sign language happened to be lost among the chatter.

He was rather sensitive about speaking, so when he finally was able to talk to Greg, he did so with the paper.

_**Chuck?**_

He scribbled on the paper and held it up.

Greg shook his head, his rather pudgy face sagging with sorrow in a way that reminded him of a sad hound dog.

'Landmine,' his lips explained.

He didn't want to ask about any of the others.

'What happened to Andrew?' he scribbled under Chuck's name, holding it up again.

Greg squinted, trying to make the words out before he slowly mouthed, 'Shrapnel. Brain. He's messed up.'

'How?' Castiel scribbled.

'Thinks he's still on the beach. Won't let us say any different.'

It was the longest sentence Castiel had been able to lip-read yet, but he wasn't proud. In fact, he wished he had misunderstood by some chance, because the truth was insufferably sad.

He turned to stare at Andrew, who was lying flat on his back, hands folded at his chest like he was already dead and waiting to be buried. His black hair had been singed close to his face.

Castiel lifted his hand to trace his own burns. The papers they left him said that, though he had been in such close proximity, his burns should heal without much scarring. He didn't much care, to be honest. He had much worse scars, ones that he felt more than other people saw.

He turned back to Greg, who appeared to be waiting for something.

"What?" he asked aloud, then clamped his mouth shut. He hadn't meant to talk. Talking had become a chore, honestly. He was also concerned that his voice sounded silly, though no one would ever admit it to him.

'What will you do now?' Greg asked, apparently for the second time.

Castiel turned his eyes to his hands, fiddling with his dog tags that had been placed at his bedside.

'I don't know,' he wrote after setting them aside. 'I really don't,' he added.

Greg let him be after that.

When they arrived at the port, with families waiting for many, the doctor came back and told Castiel in a normal pace of speech that he needed to walk with a cane for a bit, but his leg should heal up. A bullet shattering bones had certainly been the least of their worries during the war. He didn't stick around to watch how they were going to get Andrew out to his family.

Castiel saw them as he walked down the ramp. He recognized them from the pictures Andrew had always boasted. A plump mother with kind eyes, a father with a good natured smile, a little sister that clutched a ragdoll to her chest.

A girlfriend with thick, long hair and a shy expression.

They were going to be married, he had said, before June 6th happened.

A lot of good things had come out of the soldiers' time together, before Operation Overlord. Nothing good had happened since.

Charlie was gone, as well as Dean and Chuck. Greg would be in a wheelchair for the rest of his life. Andrew never really made it home, if Castiel were being honest with himself.

Even still, their brothers were fighting. The good while they had taken to get home only meant that they were distancing themselves from being able to help, to maybe prevent a few more deaths, a few more heartsick families and friends. But now, they were useless; they might as well have been left alone to fight.

Not that they would do much good, but what was the point of them living as half a person?

As Castiel emerged into the blinding sunlight, he saw the crowd waving flags, as if the moment were one of victory, of joy. Did they not know how many soldiers left physical and emotional parts of themselves on that God-forsaken beach? Was this really a happy occasion?

He knew they were cheering, though he couldn't hear it, which only made him feel worse. They probably would never know, what had happened to place the soldiers here.

As he entered the crowd, he didn't expect anyone to make a move for him, specifically. His family had never made time for him, besides Gabriel, so he was surprised to discover someone had come for him.

Michael slid through the crowd towards him, his eyes cautious, but pleased and gleaming with hope.

Castiel noticed that his hair, once kept with every hair cut at the exact same length, and grown rather long. He kept it in a low pony's tail at the nape of his neck.

Normally when Castiel saw people with this hair style, they appeared unkempt and generally gross. Michael, however, had the same golden complexion and burning blue eyes that had always earned him attention, and the pony tail only seemed to prove that Michael could pull of anything he wanted.

'What does father think about that?' Castiel thought.

He greeted his brother with a hug, a full bear hug in which they clung to each other tightly and Castiel dropped his duffel. He had promised the doctors he would walk with the cane, but the second they were out of sight he had stuffed it in the bag. Hopefully it had broken.

"You look well," Michael said.

Castiel smiled, and said out loud, for the first time, "I'm deaf." It wasn't awkward, or weird for him to say it. It was simply what he was. He could just as easily announce that he was gay. It was best Michael knew these things right away, anyhow.

Michael's expression shifted several times, from shock, grief, brief anger, and finally resting on a tired expression that was the worst yet, as if had simply begun to give up.

"You aren't the worst off, out of the Novak brothers," Michael said, speaking a bit slower now that he knew.

Gabriel's name seemed to hang between them, as well as his memory. Gabriel had been the prankster, the joker. The schools had been angry with him often for disrupting class with his antics, but they also had loved him because everyone was charmed by Gabriel, even stern, uptight Kali.

Michael said something else, but these words Castiel had hoped his had gotten wrong.

"Repeat that," he demanded.

"Raphael. Mental institution," Michael said, even slower.

The words hit Castiel hard. Out of all his brothers, Raphael had been the most rebellious. Sure, Gabriel had been unwilling at first to be a part of the army, but he loved their father and he knew what he needed to do. Raphael had always been resentful and angry. He had wanted power and that had always worried the other brothers. They had all secretly thought that war could work it out of him, but apparently that wasn't the case.

They walked to the train station, sharing no words. Castiel left Michael to the sounds of the world, and became upset when he remembered he would always have silence, whether he wanted it or not.

As they settled on a train back home, Castiel pulled out the pad of paper. He had to know, and he had to tell Michael about the last part of him that changed.

_**What exactly happened to Raphael?**_

Michael frowned, but took the pencil and paper and wrote in his neat, compressed handwriting;

_**Apparently, something in him has snapped. He turned his gun on his unit after his sergeant ordered a cease fire. The only reason they didn't shoot him as because he was out of ammo and no one was harmed. They pitied him.**_

Castiel sighed, unsure of how else to express any emotion towards the situation without breaking down into tears. What had become of them? One son dead, another gone mad, and the third deaf.

There was just Michael, still sitting straight and tall, for the world had not torn him down. Not yet. Maybe it never would. Michael always had it easy, had it better than any of them. Dad gave him more attention, more encouragement. When the first threats of war began to emerge, Michael was already enlisted, because that was what Dad expected of him and that's what he wanted.

Their father had left for war himself, and last Michael checked he was somewhere in Europe. The only reason Michael was home was because of a health complication he refused to speak of.

Though he had been bitter before, Castiel didn't feel any resentment towards his brother now. He just felt tremendously tired, as if he had just run for a long, long time and had just managed to catch his breath.

Would Michael be all he had, now? He supposed so, and he certainly owed the last person left to him in the world some ounce of truth, before he had to begin lying again, about why he didn't want to date women, or get married, about why he just wanted to be alone.

'I fell in love while I was away,' he wrote, sliding the paper over.

Michael read it a few times over before meeting his little brother's eyes with a somber, but a vaguely proud expression, as if he had been waiting for Castiel to say something.

Did he understand? That he had fallen in love with a guy? He took his pencil up again and scribbled underneath,

_**Dean Winchester.**_

Michael nodded, the corners of his mouth turning up slightly. Seeing Dean's name brought the ache back, so he place the paper face down and sighed softly. Or at least, he thought it was softly.

In a moment of sheer exhaustion, he let his head fall on his brother's shoulder, where he promptly fell asleep.

It wasn't until Michael shook him awoke a few miles from home that he realized he did not have Dean's necklace, that it was not around his neck where his memory said he had placed it.

That he had failed Dean.

A full month had passed, with Castiel healing physically, but not even a little mentally, and Michael job hunting for the both of them, unsuccessfully.

For a long while, Castiel did not feel like moving around. His leg became stiff and locked, leaving him all but useless. When it rained, his bone ached sharply, giving him more excuses to sit around and be alone with his thoughts, which became a bad thing ultimately.

He spent his time working out conversations in sign language, writing letters that Raphael would be unable to read, and praying to Gabriel. He briefly spoke to Kali at the local market.

She had lost Gabriel's child near the end of her pregnancy, she had said, but had remarried and was trying again.

Castiel wished her well, and then left without another word. She hadn't even realized he was deaf; his lip reading had become so good. He was rather proud, but the thought of Kali moving on from Gabriel felt painfully absolute.

Gabriel would have told Kali to move on, if he could, because Gabriel always wanted her to as happy as she could be. Though she would never admit it, Castiel's blessing was exactly what she had been waiting for. She was too proud to tell anyone about the nights where she would go outside and quietly cry until she was emptied of all her tears.

She would go on.

Castiel knew she would be more and more okay after each day's passing. These things took time, after all. He knew that better than anyone.

Michael struggled with sign language, the only thing he wasn't good at, though it had been relatively simple for Castiel to learn. Michael did understand that Castiel was sensitive about speaking though, and he knew he must want to be able to have a silent conversation, so he struggled on, rather liking the challenge. One had never been presented to him, after all.

They had always loved each other, but they had never been like this before; so relaxed and actually enjoying their time together.

Following these kinds of thoughts usually led to thinking about how close Dean and Sam must have been, which in turn triggered uncontrollable guilt.

How could he lose the necklace, his last link to Dean? There was nothing of them anymore, nothing left to say that he existed and cared for Castiel. There might be proof, at his old home. Maybe his name mentioned in a letter, anything. This was what tempted him to go immediately, to tell Sam who he was.

After all, if a monument to their fight was ever going up, Dean Winchester would be listed, but not Castiel. People would never look at Dean's name and know that he had been Castiel's only miracle. Maybe he was ungrateful, for counting his living as a curse, but his life was not one to envy.

Exactly two months and five days had passed since the ship docked and Michael had been there for him. Castiel woke up crying, for no real reason he could remember. It might have been a dream, or a nightmare, or maybe just a subconscious thought that had been shadowing him, but he knew he needed to see Sam right away.

His clock read 4:12 a.m., but Michael would understand, surely.

Not bothering to walk quietly, because hell, he was waking him up anyway. He hurried to Michael's room and shook him awake.

"Michael? I need something from you. Will you look up someone for me?"

His brother squeezed his eyes shut, lips moving rapidly in what Castiel would only guess to be cursing, but Michael became clearer as he asked, "What? Who?"

This part clearly being for him to hear, he told him Sam's name and the other random facts Dean had told him about where he lived, though they were inexplicit.

Michael rolled his eyes and sat up, his hair wild and knotted in the back.

"Now?" he asked.

Castiel nodded once, determined. How could he have put this off for so long? Out of guilt? Sam needed to know that his brother cared for him, that he not only left his dog tags for Sam to hold on to? Whatever had changed that night had changed big, as if he were waking up from a long lull of numbness.

He started walking, to Michael's annoyance, right after he received the address. He needed to take a train, but all in all Dean's house was not such a great distance from his own. Had they ever passed each other on the street, maybe? Brushed by each other at the store?

Castiel's mind said absolutely not, because Castiel would remember Dean Winchester, at any point. Though, you never really know.

He tracked down the house without much difficulty and stood at the door, trying to gather words that were appropriate to say, a proper apology for losing the necklace.

The house was no mansion, but it was small in a charming way, with a compact porch and well-kept lawn.

It was a decent time to wake up at this point, so maybe Sam, or his father, wouldn't be all that mad. He knocked twice, then withdrew timidly. What did he even begin with? I enjoyed kissing your brother? The thought made him snicker briefly before making him unhappy.

The pain Dean's death inflicted on his life only seemed to sharpen with time, becoming more and more raw every day he went realizing Dean Winchester would never exist again. He would never hold Castiel, or kiss him, or say that he loved him.

He was gone.

Castiel's eyes began to tear up, something they seemed to be doing very often since the invasion, when the door was flung open by a teenager with long brown hair and earnest eyes.

Castiel had learned to read people since he had become deaf. One's whole personality could be expressed merely in the face; a tilt of the eyes, a twitch of the nose, or the sincerity in the set of their lips.

This was undoubtedly Sam.

Kind, curious eyes. A welcoming smile before even knowing who the visitor was, and a relaxed set of broad shoulders. This told him that Sam was trusting and friendly and very much like Dean. Or at least, the Dean that Castiel had known. Dean had been different around the other soldiers, like he was being forced to prove how manly he was since he was busy kissing a guy on his time off.

"Can I help you?" Sam asked.

Castiel nodded, gesturing to the inside of the house.

"Yeah, come in," Sam said, stepping back to allow Castiel in. The inside of the house was neatly cluttered, with old books, a regal clock, and old furniture with patches. He tried to imagine Dean sleeping on the couch, or reading a book.

The thoughts were painful to picture, so he turned his attention to Sam.

"I fought alongside your brother. During the invasion."

Sam's eyes widened for a moment, before settling into a wrinkled up tilt as he smiled warmly.

"I'm sorry you had to deal with him. He can be pretty annoying sometimes."

Castiel blinked, stunned that Sam was taking everything so well. Perhaps that was the type of person he was, able to move on quickly. Or maybe Castiel's lip reading was off.

He was prepared to say more, to explain what he had done, when Sam turned to look behind him as if he heard someone. A light flicked on in the hallway, then turned out again as if whoever else was hear had changed their minds.

Abruptly, Castiel realized he might be interrupting something. What if Sam had a girl here and Castiel was interfering with their time together?

"I'm sorry," he said, deciding to just plunge into his explanation without any mental rehearsal. "I was with your brother until the end."

Sam beamed, picking up a cup of coffee and sipping it before saying, "He is probably grateful."

He looked over his shoulder again, annoyed. His lips began to move as if he were yelling at someone, then the hallway light flicked on again.

And Dean Winchester stomped into the room.

When Dean saw Castiel standing in his living room, he froze, like an animal that had been sighted and was prepared to bolt. He didn't, however.

Instead, he took a timid step forward then another, until they were very close. His hands shook as he raised them to touch the sides of Castiel's face.

"Cas?"

His name formed on his lips, and that was all it took.

Castiel flung himself at Dean, bringing their lips together with no consideration to Sam, who was left with a front row seat of the show on the couch.

Dean was laughing, he could tell by the wide smile, mouth half parted, and the way his shoulders bounced up and down.

Dean kissed his forehead, where a few jagged scars still remained puckered after a period of long healing, his nose, his neck. Anything he could reach that was appropriate for his brother to see.

"Castiel," he said again.

"I thought you were dead," Castiel said, emotion thick in his throat.

"I thought you were," Dean replied. After that, he began chattering, lips still turned up in utter delight. Trying to decipher what he was saying was nearly impossible; Castiel had to hold up a hand to tell him to stop.

"Dean, I can't hear you. I'm..well…deaf."

Dean's smile faded for a brief instant before he sat down, signifying that he should sit as well.

Sam left for a moment, returning with paper and a pen for Dean to write with. After several agonizingly long seconds, Dean handed the paper to Castiel, along with the pen.

_**A few nurses were able to move in after a while. They got to me before they had to retreat. Stupid Germans don't know when to stop firing. Most were only teenagers, was what the nurses told me. They said I shouldn't be alive, I shouldn't have made it, but after Chuck dragged you away, I thought I heard you get shot. I decided to suck it up and try to help you, so I staunched the bleeding the best I could and the nurses came about thirty minutes later. I got really lucky, Cas.**_

Castiel read it twice, smiling at his name and the childish appearance of Dean's handwriting.

He pointed to himself, tilting his head.

Dean nodded and took the paper back, beginning to write again.

Sam yawned, scratching his arm. This didn't seem to be an enormous occasion to him, but Castiel was already fond of him, he admitted. Dean wouldn't care so much for him if he wasn't a good kid.

Dean handed the paper back after another few minutes.

_**Chuck was screaming that you got shot and then I heard them trying to get you to safety, so I guessed that you were going to make it. That's when I decided to try living, for once. But a few hours after the nurses brought me in, they returned my necklace, and it had blood on it. What was I supposed to think?**_

Castiel looked up in disbelief, only to see Dean withdrawing the necklace from underneath his shirt, pinching the string together so that Castiel had a clear view of the pendant swinging on it.

Castiel smiled, so wide that it almost hurt, but it was hard not to. Here was everything he thought he had lost, returned to him. Maybe the future would be beautiful, from here on out.

The years flew by graciously when they were together. Sam knew, and Michael knew, that they were together, and that was the way it would always be. After thinking that they had lost each other, it was hard to let one leave the other's sight without a slight pang of fear, or the slightest bit of worry.

Dean had said that they wouldn't work out in the real world, before General Eisenhower had made the decision to move out.

Now, he seemed to spend every second trying to prove that they could. They carried out equally, as Castiel had always known they could.

They remained in the town, where they were less likely to be judged by people who had grown up with them. Dean walked by Charlie's house often, to visit with his family and to see his little brother, who was all but rabid to join the army for revenge.

"The fighting is over, little guy," Dean had told him once. Castiel had become a master lip reader, perfect for eavesdropping.

"Revenge isn't going to fix anything. You just have to keep moving on."

"You are becoming wise in your older years," Castiel told him after he left.

Dean laughed, shoving him playfully before grabbing his tie and drawing him back for a kiss, right in the middle of the street. This couldn't be the man who was ashamed of them before, had said they wouldn't ever really work.

"I love you," Dean said while their lips still touched, so Castiel would not only know that he said it, but he could feel it, too.

Castiel wanted so badly to hear Dean say these things, to hear him laughing, not just know because of his facial expression.

But he could never be ungrateful for Dean. Not after two agonizing months of thinking him gone.

Maybe they would face more challenges in the future, more opposition to the relationship they held. But they could never part with one another. In three days they fell in love, and on the fourth day they believed that they lost each other. With all the time of thinking and hurting in between, how could they tear themselves away from the remedy that they had found here, in one another's arms?

Their moments were tranquil, and low in excitement, but after all that had happened, quiet was just the way they liked it, thank you.

Even when Dean woke up in the middle of the night screaming because of a nightmare, they regretted nothing. When Castiel could not hear the wondrous new tune on the radio that sat in their living room, he regretted nothing. They had served, had given their part for their country. How dare anyone judge them for wanting this one little thing, this one bit of solace they had?

So more and more years went by, and as Sam graduated from college, Dean and Castiel secured him an apartment, taking the old Winchester home as their own. Their dad was gone, off to another town. He had decided to hit the road and see the world.

At first, Dean had wondered if it was because he had brought Castiel into the picture, but before he left, his dad hugged him and apologized. He didn't wait to see if Dean had any sympathy for him; he was there, and then he was gone.

They found regularity in their lives, of being together. It was all they knew how to do anymore. Even when Castiel limped, or Dean had his rough nights of thinking he was back on the sand, dying, they were able to be okay again.

Until they lay their hearts side by side in the earth, with markers to announce them as soldiers, they had this: kisses stolen during the day, fireworks on summer nights, Sam's children who begged for stories about the war as they got older, but never got their wishes, and a garden, for Castiel insisted.

They grew any plant that had ever caught Castiel's eye, had ever struck him as beautiful. He told Dean there needed to be more beauty in the world, so people wouldn't give up.

In the garden was an array of flowers that didn't correlate with one another, but Castiel insisted they plant sunflowers, roses, buttercups, peonies, lilies, and countless more.

"They won't grow," Dean told him in sign language. He had picked up on it far better than Michael had, to Michael's annoyance.

Maybe they would grow, maybe they wouldn't. If war, and the supposed death of Dean, had taught Castiel anything, it was that you never knew what would happen, what could come flying around the corner and change your life forever. All in an instant.

Or maybe three days.

"Time will tell," Castiel signed back.


End file.
